The Last Valkyrie: The Shield-Maiden's Swan Song
by maembe13
Summary: One Valkyrie survived the battle against Hela's forces. One Shield-Maiden lived to fight for Asgard again. What paths took her from Asgard's elite fighting force to becoming "Scrapper 142" on the garbage planet of Sakaar? This is Brynhild's story (Myths meet MCU, pre-Ragnarok). One Shot


_Note: So, I was reading through Padraic Colom's Children of Odin to find inspiration for Shadow of Death and came across the story of Brynhild. I couldn't shake it till I wrote it and mixed it with the MCU. This is what happened. Enjoy! :)_

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**The Last Valkyrie: The Shield-Maiden's Swan Song**

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Agnar, chieftain of the Brodock, sat on the bank of the pond with his fishing pole in his hand. His sword remained sheathed at his side as he sought his next meal. A small cask of ale warmed him as he took another swig and wiped his face on his wool sleeve. His brown eyes scanned the surface of the little pond. He hoped to see his line pulled in answer to a trout, but, alas, it remained still and his basket remained empty.

The glassy pond, lined with cat tails and gnarled oak trees, echoed the dull, grey sky of early spring. Now that the winter's snows had melted back into the earth, the earth was once again beginning to wake from its long slumber.A small clump of daffodils waved in the wind on the knoll behind his back and the geese were returning to nest.

It would be a dull supper indeed if the trout remained so obstinate. He sighed and pulled his line in again to assure it still held bait. As he did, his attention was diverted by the sound of flapping wings nearby. He swung his head to the knoll behind him. There, he saw the most magnificent bird he had ever seen. It appeared to be a swan, and yet it stood taller than any swan he had yet met-nearly as tall as his finest hunting dog. Its curved, arched neck bobbed up and down as the bird alighted in the tall grasses. It pulled its majestic wings close into its body where its feathers glowed with a whiteness so pure it would put fresh fallen snow to shame.

The chieftain held his breath and sank deeper into the bushes, hoping to keep himself hidden from the bird. He peeked through the leaves and watched as the bird trundled towards the small pond, flapped its wings, let out a small cry, and splashed into the water. The swan let the water roll over its neck and onto its pearly back with a buoyant rocking motion and then dove beneath the surface of the water.

What emerged from the pond was not a swan's head.

Agnar stared, his eyes wide, his mouth agape, and his heart beat faster than a woman pounding meal.

A maiden's head, hair as dark as the knob of the swan that had vanished into the waters, fell in wet curls to the water's surface. A face the same rich shade of brown as that of a mallard hen turned to face the grey sky above her. Full lips parted to inhale the cold spring air and she tread water for a moment before she reached the shallows of the pond. She rose from the pond and her bare feet sank deep into the soft mud of the shore.

As the warrior's eyes rose from her feet, he quickly noticed it was not only her feet that remained bare. In her arms she carried a loose bundle of white feathers, but other than that she lacked any other covering. She paused to look behind her and pick up a loose train of her feathered burden. Then the maiden shook out what appeared to be a robe made of plumage. Water droplets and bits of down fluttered off it as she shook. She placed her garment on a nearby tree branch to dry and remained garbed in only the water droplets that pooled on her smooth skin.

Then a small half-smile crossed her lips. She lifted her hand into the air and, out of nothing, she pulled a long, shining sword. She admired its sharp edge with her finger along its hilt as if greeting an old and very dear friend. Then she swung it with a motion so powerful, she struck the trunk of the nearby oak tree in two with one blow. She glanced at her handiwork with an expression of approval. Then she fell upon the tree once more. She continued to hew at its branches with a doe-like lightness of foot that belied the strength of her arms-arms which rivaled that of any warrior. A pile of firewood continued to grow at her bare feet.

The chieftain, gaining his wits about him again, quietly crept through the bushes to the tree where the maiden's garment hung. The leaves shuddered as he pulled it off the branch. He had never felt cloth so finely woven or feathers so strong beneath his fingers-as if formed out of iron, and yet it felt as light and as malleable as any fowl's plumes. He stared at it in awe, running his coarse, calloused fingers over it. So transfixed was he that he failed to note the pause in the maiden's work.

His attention was drawn back to the maid when he found the pointed edge of her sword calling a small trickle of blood from his throat. Eyes, black as coal and as fierce as flame, bore into his own as she held the sword aloft in both hands.

"Mortal, you will unhand my garment, or I will slit your throat," she said in a voice as calm as the stone which sets off an avalanche.

He tipped his head to one side and surveyed her carefully. It was a risk, but one he hoped would benefit him in the end.

"My lady, I can see you are a mighty shield-maiden. You have the heart of a lion and the strength of ten men. I would gladly heed your request, but first I would have your oath of loyalty," he said, boring his own eyes into hers. He watched as her face went taught first with anger and then with a pensive consideration.

"I would know to whom I swear my allegiance, mortal," she answered, in a tone of mock respect.

"Agnar, chief of the Brodock," he answered with a slight bow. "And you? Are you a spirit of the water or one of the fae folk or an elven maid?"

She dropped her sword and leaned slightly upon its hilt as her dark eyes roamed his face.

"I am called Brynhild, daughter of Thronholm. I am a Valkyrie," she said. "And you, Agnar, chief of the Brodock, have my oath of loyalty. My sword is yours during the remainder of your mortal life, however long or short your days may be."

Agnar held out the feathered garment to Brynhild. She snatched it from him and held it aloft to ensure it remained unharmed. Then, with a flick of her wrist, it vanished.

"Agnar, chief of the Brodock, what service or quest may I aid you with?" she said as she stood and pulled her sword into her hand.

"You will come to my hill fort and assist us in our battles against our enemy, King Helmgunnar, who seeks to take our lands as his own," he said. He walked to where his fishing line and cask of ale lay abandoned on the pond bank and took them up. He pulled his cloak from the ground, brushed the loose mud off its edges, and handed it toward the maiden. She looked at him and raised one eyebrow in silent question.

"For you, my lady," he said and brought it closer to her.

"Does my appearance displease you, my lord?" she asked. She gave a haughty toss of her head and crossed her arms against her chest.

Agnar cleared his throat and flushed. "On the contrary, my lady, but I would…be displeased if you caught cold. The airs are frigid this day and you could grow ill from exposure."

Her eyes flashed and she returned her sword to his throat. "You find me weak," she said, menace in her voice. "I could best you blindfolded and with naught but my bare hands."

"I would be a fool to so accuse you," he answered. "Forgive me if my words sounded as if I doubt your heartiness. I merely meant to look to your comfort."

"When does a warrior long for comfort above battle? Do not doubt my valor or my thirst for battle," she said. She suddenly twisted around and threw her sword from her hand. It pierced the heart of the elm tree forty paces away and buried the sword in its hard flesh to its hilt.

"Remove it," she said. "Prove you are a man."

Agnar frowned. He could not refuse such a challenge, nor could he hope to best her. He strode towards the tree, took the hilt into both his hands and braced his foot against the trunk. He pulled with all his strength. Again and again, he pulled. Until the sweat poured down his brow, he strove in vain.

A mocking laugh met his ears and the shield-maiden strode towards the sword. With one hand, she withdrew her sword and turned her proud head away without giving him a second glance.

"Now, my liege, lead us to your kingdom," she said. With another flick of her wrist, a silver shield appeared. On its face, a hammer, surrounded by stars and two ravens, glinted in the grey afternoon light. With another flick of her wrist, a full coat of armor appeared to melt over her bare skin. Plates of silver metal interwoven with black leather now covered her form completely, crowned with a white feathered helmet and a long, trailing white cape.

Agnar hid his expression by turning to lead the way to the cedar pikes of his hill-fort's defenses.

ooooooo

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Agnar sat at the head of the table in their mead hall. The dogs chewed on the bones of the pheasants that had so generously contributed to their bountiful feast that evening. The bards finished their songs and tales while tankards continued to be drained. His warrior-companions, drunk on yet another victory against their enemies, now sought to quench their thirst for celebration together.

"To our Swan Maiden, our Valkyrie," Sigur shouted and raised his tankard. His apple wine splashed over its edges and drenched the long hair of his neighbor. "May your sword always bring us victory over our enemies and your shield always protect our kin."

A chorus of echoing shouts, hoots, and hollers resounded against the tall beams of the mead hall. Calloused fists pounded against the long tables and boots stomped on the floor boards.

Brynhild stood. Her gown seemed inhumanly white in the dark, musty hall so full of warriors and revels. She stood a head taller than all of the warrior-companions and she towered over them now where they sat. She lifted one dark eyebrow, pursed her lips, and lifted her own tankard of strong mead in recognition of their honor granted her. Then she drained the entire tankard in one swallow. She threw it onto the table with a resounding clang.

"Another!" she shouted and the hall erupted into cheers.

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ooooooooooooo

Brynhild stood in full armor, sword raised and dripping blood as her dark eyes surveyed the writhing, miserable mass of dying men strewn across the field of battle. Their cries filled the air with the songs of Valhalla and she walked from warrior to warrior, rolling some over for her own investigation. Some, she dismissed and left to die. Others she paused before and stared deep into their anguished eyes. Those that held the fire she sought, she placed a rune upon their forehead and they vanished.

For days, she walked the battle fields of Midgard till all her senses were bathed in the scent of the slain. She paused to roll her back and wipe the dirt and dried blood from her forehead. As she did, her eyes caught the sight of a blue-cloaked figure walking towards her. A long, brown and grey beard trailed down his strong chest. He wore the garb of a Midgardian traveler or sage, but he walked with the bearing of a king and his bright blue eyes spoke of the wisdom of all the Nine Realms.

"Lady Brynhild," he said as he drew near to her.

"All-Father," she said and knelt into the dust, one arm raised across her armored chest.

His blue eyes pierced into her and she could see the hearths of barely contained rage within. She dropped her eyes to his leather boots.

"Why have you disobeyed my commands, Valkyrie?" he asked, his voice hard.

She stood and faced him. "My King, I swore an oath to protect the chieftain Agnar and his warrior-companions."

"Did you not also swear an oath of fealty to Asgard and your King?"

"Yes, my lord," she said. Nervously, her fingers played over the hilt of her sword.

"Tell me, Valkyrie, how the oath to a Midgardian peasant outweighs your oath to your King?" he said, voice lowering instead of rising in his anger. "I chose King Helmgunnar for victory. Why, then, have you bestowed your aid upon that of his enemies and so fought the will of the All-Father?"

"Asgard's thirst for the warriors of Midgard is insatiable," she said with a bitter anger cutting her words into daggers. "You sent me to claim the finest of warriors to people your own army, but despite the hordes I have gathered, it is never enough. I grow weary of draining Midgard of every last warrior to fill the halls of Valhalla."

"How many centuries have we sought the wisdom of the ancients together, Brynhild?" Odin said. His face, draining of its anger, now fell into melancholy. "Despite your youth amongst your sisters, I have welcomed you into the knowledge of the deepest of runes. Yet, you do not understand the prophecies. How can we hope to prevail against Hela's armies if our own is weak? You remember the fate of your sisters? You are the only remnant. It will take the strongest warriors of all the realms for even a remnant to survive the Twilight of the Gods."

"Forgive me, All-Father. There is naught I can say in my defense that will acquit me of wrongdoing."

"No. Though it grieves me, it must be done. Brynhild, daughter of Thronholm, you are hereby banished from Asgard, never to return until the dawn of Ragnarok is upon us. You are stripped of your sword, your shield, and your swan cloak and must live the remainder of your days in exile and disgrace."

Brynhild held up her bloodied shield and sword. They vanished along with the All-Father and her feathered cloak. She turned to face the field of corpses around her and she threw up her face into the grey sky and laughed.

"Thank you, All-Father, for freeing me of the burden of your commands. I no more wish to rummage through the slain like a jackal among the wilds than I wish to join the armies of Helheim myself. Take your mighty warriors and your mighty mead hall and leave me in peace."

She strove off the battlefield with all the speed her legs could grant her and returned to the hill-fort of Agnar, no long chief but now king.

She now belonged to no land.

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ooooooooooo

Brynhild screamed with the anger of a thousand Helhounds as she plunged her sword into the man's heart. The sword, though clumsily forged with weak Midgardian metals, proved strong enough to slice through his breast in one stroke. The man's blue eyes met hers and she swallowed, momentarily captivated in ghosts of the memories those familiar eyes evoked.

Once, they were filled with adoration, awe, and promises. So many promises.

Those same eyes had forgotten his promises, betrayed his betrothed, and bound himself to another.

"He did not mean to," they said. "He injured his head and did not remember," they said.

Did not remember her? She was a Valkyrie, the finest of Asgard. He gave his oath, she gave her heart. She would not tolerate such disgrace from a mortal. Such piercing agony as rent her soul could not be banished with such pitiful excuses. She would not, could not, be replaced without repercussion.

Now, those blue eyes filled with anguish and dying hope as he stared upon her and slowly succumbed to the veil of nothingness. She pulled her sword out and spat upon his chest.

"I should have killed you slowly with a thousand tiny daggers. You are not worthy an honorable death at the point of my sword, you son of a rabid ice hound. May your widow weep with enough tears to float your burial ship and may she rue the day she agreed to wed such a faithless cur," she said.

She rubbed the blade of her sword across his tunic to clean it and then sheaved it again. She left the room. She could hear it when they found him. The shouts, the cries, and wails.

Her feet had wandered the fields of Midgard for a thousand years. She'd made kings rise and fall, kingdoms forge and crumble. She, the wisest of the Valkyrie, had been foolish enough to give her heart once. She would not be so foolish again.

And she tired of Midgard. Their short lives and short sight, their petty squabbles, and constant thirst for whatever they did not have. She would go somewhere else.

She could escape the dreams, the memories, the ghosts that haunted her sleep. She could almost taste the promises of improved fortunes if she left all of this behind her.

She was willing to go anywhere else.

Well, almost anywhere else.

There was one realm that remained barred to her…but she would not think upon that one.

Unfortunately, her methods of travel between realms remained limited. She would need to find a way to leave Midgard.

oooooooooooo

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They came. In a tidal wave of ice and frost, they rushed upon the shores of the northern isles and appeared like locust on a summer harvest. The blue of their skin matched that of the sea and sky around them and their eyes burned with the red of the sun at dusk as they peered into the rugged mountains jutting out of the wild sea.

They came to kill and conquer and destroy. She wished for none of that, but she did see the way they appeared in a flash from a realm farther away than she could hope to reach on her own. She called on her courage and pulled her white cloak tighter around her armored chest. Then she strode into the center of the camp where the warriors lay in wait for battle. A dozen ice swords soon surrounded her and she scoffed.

"Asgardian," one said. "It is foolhardy to come alone."

"Former Asgardian," she said. "And I wish to speak with your King."

King Laufey sat on a chair carefully formed out of ice and peeled raw meat off a bone and into his mouth. He sat in silence for half an hour watching her, his keen eyes raking over her expression, her tattered armor, her Midgardian sword.

"Asgardian," he said in a subtle voice, not so much a whisper as a hiss. "Why do you seek Laufey?"

"I wish to barter passage off of Midgard and to, well, anywhere else except Asgard," she said with a half-smile.

"You seek treason," he said. "Why not seek passage with your own gatekeeper?"

"He is under orders not to hear my pleas," she said.

"I see. A disgraced shield-maiden," he said. "Exiled on Midgard-a fitting punishment." His lips parted to reveal a sharp grin. "What is your name?"

"You may call me Valkyrie," she said. Her old name, like her old life, she would leave behind her.

"Valkyrie, I will accept your plea, on condition you relate what you know of the strongholds and defenses of this region of Midgard."

She shrugged, sat on a nearby log, and told him all she knew.

oooooo

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She almost didn't make it. She covered herself in a long, black cloak and slipped amongst the warriors of Laufey just as they made their final retreat from Midgard to Jotunheim. She never expected them to win, however, she was surprised how quickly Asgard came to defend the poor, defenseless Midgardian peasants they so regularly ignored. It mattered little to her. She knew her open door when it came and she would take it.

The Ice Casket's light flooded the battle plain and in another flash, she found herself still surrounded by Laufey's army, but now in the bitter cold and dark of Jotunheim. She sighed in relief to see any land other than the one she had dwelt on so long and felt the ice crunch beneath her feet as she walked towards the King.

"Shield-Maiden," the King said in his voice-soft as sand yet hard as iron. "You come to mock our defeat."

"No, I come to ensure you fulfill your promise," she said. "I cannot stay here."

"Indeed, you cannot," Laufey said with a bitter frown. "But I cannot spare the Casket of Ancient Winters to transport you now. Our enemies will not tarry and we must evacuate the surface. However, there is another way. When the Casket is returned to the center of the temple, it will power our defenses there. Within the walls of the temple, there are a series of portals that will take you to other realms. You will see the light of the Casket when it is time."

"You have my gratitude, King," she said with a slight bow. She was not surprised to see three warriors trailing her steps as she made her way towards the temple. Laufey had no reason to trust her and she gave a self-satisfied grin in his acknowledgement of her potential to do him harm.

The temple rose out of the glacial landscape like a cathedral formed out of the most translucent of crystal. Towering buttresses of glittering ice formed walls and domes and arched doorways that stretched into the sky. The temple stood as the tallest structure in the heart of the surface-level city. She did not doubt that the realm multitudes dwelt below the surface, out of the frigid wind and storms.

She followed a walkway made of ice tiles designed with patterns of snowflakes and stars. Small white flakes whipped around the hallway from the open windows on either side of the hallway and made her wish she had brought additional cloaks and furs to warm her quickly numbing limbs.

The hallway spilled into a massive hall, larger than any mead hall of Midgard, and nearly barren except for a raised dais or alter in its center. Eight warriors with swords drawn guarded the altar, their red eyes now all fixed upon her as she walked towards them. One hissed and pointed his icy sword in her direction.

"King Laufey has granted me passage," she said. "However, I cannot seem to find the portals. Can you direct me?"

"What evidence do you have to give truth to your claim?" the tallest warrior asked.

"He gave me none, however seeing as I am the only Asgardian on Jotunheim at the moment and I did not arrive by bifrost, you will have to take my word for it that the King granted me passage with the Casket of Ancient Winters from Midgard."

She was distracted from continuing her speech when a tall woman appeared. She wore a short, grey fur around her waist and another hung from her shoulders. Her dark hair wrapped around her head in braided coils and her ears, neck, and wrists were covered in jewelry carved from bone and rock and ice. She stood nearly as tall as the warriors but she moved with a slender grace. In her arms, she bore a small bundle of leather and fur. She lay the bundle on the dais, placed a series of stones carved with symbols around it, and nodded towards the guards. They all raised their swords above their heads and murmured something in a language that Brynhild could not understand.

The woman turned to leave and, as she did, the wail of an infant pierced the air. The woman turned back towards the cry, raised her hand, lowered it again, and disappeared into the dark passageway beyond.

"Over yonder," a warrior told her, waiving his ice-encased arm to a passage on her right. "The series of doorways marked with symbols for each of the realms. Do not enter until they glow blue with the power of the Casket."

She nodded and gave her thanks. Through their towering figures, she could just make out the small, blue arm waving wildly from beneath the pile of furs.

oooooooo

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She sat on the cold floor, her legs wrapped in her arms, as she waited for the portals to be ready. It was taking longer than she anticipated and she couldn't help her teeth from chattering. She could still hear the babe as it cried and she wondered how long she would need to listen to its wails.

She'd seen three warriors pass through the hall way into the main temple hall, but none carried anything save a parcel of food for the infant and frozen fish for the guards watching over the babe.

Suddenly, the entire hall-walls, doors, windows, floors-lit up with a piercing aura of blue power. The ice came alive and almost seemed to sing as it burst into a multiplicity of colors. It reflected the light off the various surfaces of cut ice, which Brynhild could only now see were designed to so display the beauty of the Casket in its chiseled surfaces. She could also feel the hum of power that now surrounded the temple complex, protecting those within from dangers without.

She did not waste another moment. She picked a doorway and Jotunheim disappeared.

oooooooo

* * *

"Scrapper 142," the voice called behind her. She turned, ready to throw a dagger through the voice until she realized it was only the poor slave. She sighed. She would be called to the Grandmaster again-as if she were a hunting hound to be summoned with a whistle. She glared at the small, orange woman in front of her and only stayed her hand out of the inconvenience paying her recompense would prove.

For all her "wisdom", she now considered herself a fool.

Once Brynhild, daughter of Thronholm, then Valkyrie, mercenary Shield-Maiden of Alfheim, she was now reduced to Scrapper 142. She huffed to herself and pulled the stopper off another bottle. One wrong turn in a race against a Kree battleship on a mission outside the Nine, and she found herself inextricably caught in the pull of a wormhole and deposited in this putrid garbage heap of a planet. There was no way off, no way out. For thousands of years, she managed to make her escape, but now she was bound to the worst place she had yet been. Perhaps it was her punishment for her past misdeeds, the All-Father's curse and banishment forcing the Norns to weave ever drabber outcomes into her fate. Whatever the cause, all she could hope to do now was forget.

At the point of her sword, in the bottom of a bottle, in the emptiness of exhausted sleep, she sought her oblivion. If only it would last longer, quench her thirst, provide her true rest. But her own desires proved as insatiable as the armies of Asgard.

oooooooooo

* * *

She stood on the crumbling remains of the Rainbow Bridge and watched the golden spires of the Eternal City succumb into the fiery embrace of Surtur. It was as the old Seer had said. She could not help but join Asgard's armies in one last battle during Ragnarok, the Twilight of the Gods. It proved fitting that her homecoming to Asgard would also be her farewell. She soaked in one last memory of those streets and towers and waterfalls even as she watched it all crumble into ash before her eyes.

The armies of Odin proved barely enough to prevail against Hela's forces. A pitiful remnant of Asgard remained as refugees fleeing for their lives-a shadow of the proud, mighty people they had once been. Would they follow in her steps? Would the people of Asgard fall into ever deeper levels of disgrace? Would they be forced to forget their own names and find themselves exiled as the refuse of the universe they once ruled?

No. She had taken an oath of fealty to Asgard. She would continue to use her sword and shield in Asgard's defense.

She pulled the strong, firm Asgardian sword from her sheath and let her finger run along its blade. The fires of the engulfing demon glowed golden in the face of the weapon. She slashed it through the air until it sang with the weight of her stroke. If this was to be Asgard's swan song, she would have it sung so loudly, the whole universe would hear it.

"Come on, Val," Thor called from nearby. "It's time."

She listened to the one last song from the blade of her sword. She took her last breath of Asgardian air and turned to join what remained of her people on the ship that would take them to what would be their new home-and hers.

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_Author's Note: if someone else has already written something similar, cool. We are pulling from the same mythology. I did condense a bit...I mean the whole Sleeping Beauty thing has some possibility but this particular version didn't have a 'happily ever after' so I skipped the "rescue the sleeping damsel" part and just got to the bloody ending. I gotta say I really did enjoy the Valkyrie version of some familiar fairy tales. When the heroine has a sword and can take anyone down, she is a much more interesting character than the "damsel in distress" trope. _

_As always, reader reviewers are the reward for the late nights of your authors. Feedback is always appreciated. Thank you so much for reading and I hope you have enjoyed!_


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